


An Executive Cut

by geniusbillionairegayboy



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Beheading, Canon-Typical Violence, DSMP, Dream Smp, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Art, Non-Graphic Violence, Psychosis, Public Execution, Technoblade & Phil Watson Friendship (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), psychotic character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29190456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniusbillionairegayboy/pseuds/geniusbillionairegayboy
Summary: Quackity gives Technoblade a haircut with an axe, and Phil helps him fix it after.Inspired by art done by @homosexual-sidecast on tumblr, which you can viewhereandhere.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 235





	An Executive Cut

**Author's Note:**

> This might be assumed - I don't know the etiquette, as this is my first "RPF" fic - but this fic is strictly about my interpretation of c!Techno and c!Phil, and not the content creators behind them.

Adrenaline carried Techno home. Adrenaline and overwhelming, all consuming, debilitating rage. It screamed in his ears and pounded on his being, bearing down on his entire body with such immense force that it seemed likely to make him collapse in on himself, fall, scream, explode, something. But he kept going. The voices didn’t help. The panicked and helpful among them - who offered direction and assistance in his initial escape from L’Manberg’s stocks - had long since turned to white noise while the poking, prodding, and laughing, the least helpful of them all, stood loud and proud above the rest. But he kept going. His world and all the rest seemed aligned in one interest, putting him specifically through the worst day imaginable. But he kept going.

A few things kept him anchored.

One, Carl was safe. When Quackity led him away hours ago, just before the literal and metaphorical axe fell on Techno’s neck, he hadn’t been sure if he’d done enough to spare his companion. Perhaps Quackity truly meant to keep up his side of the deal, perhaps the so-called “Butcher Army” _had_ planned to kill him but simply hadn’t had the time, or perhaps they had something planned that remained beyond his foresight, something horrible and devastating that he would’ve never seen coming, perhaps something akin to a public execution. Techno supposed he’d never know. He certainly couldn’t ask. In the end, it didn’t matter. Dream, in one way or another, for some reason or another, spared Carl and, in some ways, spared Techno by reuniting them in the earth beneath L’Manberg. In the short-term, that assistance was a major comfort, and a necessary factor in his survival. In the long-term, it might end up causing more problems than it was worth.

_Hey, Technoblade..._

Two, it was cold. Really cold. The piglin blood flowing through Techno’s veins and the fur coating his skin worked together to protect him from most elements, being features adapted to let his species survive in the desolating heat of hell, but that did mean his body was more suited for high temperatures than low ones, not to mention his adversaries had stripped him of not just his armour and weapons but his furs, his jewellery, and all the other signs of wealth and power he’d amassed over the years. Yes, he was nearly home, but that also meant it was cold. Really cold. The chill was unpleasant but it forced his mind to slow down, doing something to counteract the red hot anger consuming his thoughts, and so the frost was welcome to cling to his fur if it so desired.

_...I’ve named him..._

And third, and most importantly, Phil was okay. At least, for now he was. Techno’s oldest, dearest companion was still under totalitarian house arrest and might be for the foreseeable future, which was far worse than any sort of treatment he deserved, but he seemed… alright. He’d been worried, visibly, from his confined perspective of the blatant perversion of justice that was Techno’s “trial”, but he’d also laughed when Techno died but lived again, fleeing both the wood and metal binding him and the weapons of his oppressors in a glorious flash of gold. Still, it was unfortunate that Phil had to see the gore that preceded his revival. He could’ve simply turned his head or closed his eyes if he’d so chosen, true, but Techno couldn’t really blame him for deciding not to do that. Had their positions been reversed, Techno didn’t know that he would’ve been able to avert his gaze.

_...I’ve named him Friend._

But perhaps that was a topic worth moving away from. After all, as Techno was quickly discovering on his long journey home, dwelling too much on the details of his near-death seemed to get him thinking - 

*

“That’s fantastic Ghostbur, that’s fantastic,” Techno said, with what he hoped was a voice filled with more affection than panic. If the voices were anything to judge by, he was panicking. His perception of his own voice and outward demeanour was that he seemed calm, emotionless, a reaction to crises that was inappropriate in some circumstances but very helpful in this one. Being confined to a pillory with what felt like a small army of people staring at him, waiting for his brutal, government-approved, public murder, he could stand to appear calm and collected. Then again, his perception of himself and everything else was often untrustworthy. “But I’m currently being execut-”

Something took a hold of his hair and lifted his head up and back in one violent jerk, pulling it sharply enough that even with the back of his skull pressed against the wood of the stocks, Techno’s scalp tingled with spots of pain. 

“Hey!” he began instinctively, before his mind caught up with his mouth, narrowing his eyes but otherwise let his face remain empty as he met Quackity’s gaze and jeered, “No tying up the hair. If it protects my neck three times, I’m free to go.”

In most situations, his enemy might appreciate the attempt at levity. Even when on opposite sides of a conflict and even when he found himself in mortal danger, Quackity never seemed hesitant to crack a joke or laugh at anothers’, refusing to take anything seriously in a way that brought him a type of power Techno could only imitate. Here, though, he just returned Techno’s joke with a relaxed grin. Pulling pink locks and braids taut over the edge of the wooden prison, he replied, “Well, you see, we need you dead for sure, so a few exceptions can be made.” He ran his fingers through the hair cascading over the other side of the board, then moved his hand to ready his axe. “Besides-”

A loud thunk resounded in Techno’s ears and then was followed by absolute silence. That was usually a welcome occurrence, as moments of silence were rare for a man most often accompanied by an immeasurable number of voices, but here it was unsettling. Silence grew to static and then a harsh, constant ringing as a few, short locks of hair fell in Techno’s face and, barely, over his eyes. All the rest dropped on his back or on the ground in front of him, in perfect position for him to fixate on as Quackity let go of his remaining waves, dropping his head to hang low and limp in the stocks.

“We aren’t tying it up,” Quackity whispered, suddenly right in his ear. 

Techno couldn’t bring himself to look or react. All he could do was stare at his hair, so much of his hair, braided and beaded and dead on the ground, as Quackity readied his axe one more time.

*

Pain and panic flooded his body, feelings that belonged to him but not to this time, as Techno sat up straight in bed and his hand found his neck. Fingertips dug into fur and scarred flesh whilst he struggled to breathe. He was alive. He was dead. He was-

_You’re alive._

He nodded, moving his hand to feel his pulse in his neck and then his heart in his chest before letting it drop to his lap, where it remained as he sat there, surrounded by bunched up blankets and skewed pillows, remembering what it felt like to be real, to be now.

Some time later, seconds or minutes or hours, Techno descended the stairs. His pyjamas were replaced with a sweater, his crown and jewellery donned for an audience of one, but uneven strands of unstyled, undecorated pink still fell loosely in his face and eyes. He could do nothing for them. He would do nothing for them. They partially obscured his view of the kitchen as he stepped into the warm morning light and stopped to look at Phil, who was too preoccupied with his progress on breakfast to notice the arrival of his partner. Pausing to sniff the air, Techno let himself really relax. It smelled good.

_Use your words._

“It smells good.”

Phil jumped, then turned to face Techno and met him with a smile wide enough to show his teeth and to distort the scars which cut through his flesh and facial hair. It was a welcome sight. “Morning! It’s almost ready. How are you feeling?”

“Like a dead man walking,” Techno answered, crossing the first floor of his home to stop in the kitchen and taking up a spot against the edge of the counter, watching the chef at work.

Phil paused, flipping a pancake and letting it brown while he moved another, fluffier and darker than the first, to a plate nearby. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, then looked up when no response came to find the other man avoiding his gaze like the plague. He sighed, set down his spatula, and reached out with one hand to touch Techno’s face, meeting an area which was usually obscured by hair, then exposed to the world.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Techno belatedly answered, before turning away and stepping out of reach, finding a seat at the table instead of staying close while Phil finished making food. 

A few minutes passed in silence before Techno was brought back to reality by a hand and a plate appearing in his peripheral vision. A small stack of pancakes was set down on the table before him and then the hand disappeared, returning to empty space until a soft pressure settled on his head and then ran through his hair, finding comfort in familiar territory before lifting Techno’s haphazard bangs out of his face and back behind his ears with the rest. 

“At least let me tidy it up,” Phil spoke, his voice a warm comfort made twice as effective by the steady, soothing motion of the fingers in Techno’s hair.

The younger man closed his eyes and let his shoulders fall, let his jaw relax, let the air steadily escape his lungs, then breathed in slow and nodded.

His agreement was met by a soft hum of approval and then the brief press of two arms around his body and a chin resting atop his head as Phil stood behind Techno’s chair, wrapping his companion in a rare, protective embrace. When he let go, he gave his hair one last absent-minded stroke and said, “I’ll go fetch the comb and scissors. Eat up.”

**Author's Note:**

> The "psychosis" and "psychotic character" tags apply to Techno. His psychosis is explicitly shown here in the form of hallucinations, grandiose thoughts, and an unstable perception of reality. These symptoms diverge from canon in order to be more accurate to real psychosis.
> 
> Author is psychotic, so if you have any qualms with the way I represent myself, I don't care. (Unless you're also psychotic and think I'm misrepresenting our community in any way, in which case please let me know!)


End file.
